


Only Ones Who Know

by goldleaveswithholesinthem



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, kind of a Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaveswithholesinthem/pseuds/goldleaveswithholesinthem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe this is growing up, realising you are weird and pathetic."</p><p>The one Zayn finds Harry, or they find each other and they fall in love but growing up hurts. Maybe just a little too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebrightblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebrightblue/gifts).



> For bluebrightblue
> 
> I chose the boarding school setting, but my whole boarding school experience is limited to reading Harry Potter so excuse me if this feels a bit like a non magical Hogwarts AU. I tried to keep the relashionship between Zayn and Harry to your liking, but changed the prompt a bit. 
> 
> Hope you like it! 
> 
> All the thanks to my beta.

**_“lovely, expensive, and about 19.”_ **

                                   _F. Scott Fitzgerald_

 

* * *

 

Zayn is eighteen and he wakes up later than usual that day, the classes all but over and the sun bright above the deep iron blue of the lake. Just a little more, just a couple of days until he won’t see the still life outside his windows or in hallways. Unless they are Monets and Van Gogh's and those Dutch ones his mum likes best, but he never cared enough to know how to pronounce the names of properly. He thinks about the stillness of it, how in fact his life in school was never still at all. You may think that, a bunch of privileged kids, the one percent hidden away somewhere in Scotland, one of those schools people would say. One of those boys. Buried in the country, age eleven to eighteen, and then off to one of those colleges.

Zayn used to think this was prison. Boarding school as the problem solver for parents with unwanted children. Kids that were those necessary fixtures in official events and indispensable supporting roles in those holiday family cards, kids that make that shiny happy family clients seem to love. The burden of the first born son. The confinements of a trust fund with all the strings attached. He used to rebell and disappear during the summer, blowing money in designer bars and trying to find the perfect breed of indica. Never waking up before three in the afternoon, never too late to the next big party.  Fucking off on a yacht with his new best friends, Liam and Louis finding him in a brand new ruin pub in Budapest, sleeping on the sand in Croatia. Burning one on the shore, the wish for September unsaid, but shared, floating in smoke around them, all of them dreaming with that special kind of blue of the Great Lake.

People often think growing up in such a small community is dull or fated to boredom, but things only become a bubble when you let them. The thing about closed quarters is that it becomes a universe of it’s own, Zayn thinks. Maybe it’s how people find interest in a colony of ants or Orange Is The New Black. He knows people have an entire cosmos of feelings inside themselves, he had read about it, he has seen it even.  He thought he was ready to leave, to be done with this chapter of his life - uniforms and classes, and the same faces in the same corridors. But he finds himself staling in those same corridors between classes, savoring his mornings maybe for the first time in his life and smiling to his classmates, touching the old stones around him and wishing he had used his time better, smoked less weed behind the greenhouse with Louis and maybe attended the winter dances more than that one time when he was fourteen and a little bit in love with Daisy.

They start packing a week before leaving for good. Zayn knows people usually think about this as packing for home, but he can’t shake the feeling he is leaving home for good now. They all have their heavy coats lining the bottom of Louis Vuitton trunks and the L.L. Bean and Hunter boots giving way to espadrilles and brazilian flip flops. Graduating is a bittersweet experience, Zayn thinks, folding the dress shirts he had to wear for the last 4 years. He undoes the green and silver tie he was wearing all day and lets it fall down on the pile of crisp white Italian handmade shirts. He wonders if they all feel this way, his friends, his colleagues. Like a bunch of captive animals too afraid of leaving the cage. Not trusting the open doors and the great big unknown, just a bunch of overgrown teenagers with too many issues, too little real comprehension of the real world and too much money.

 

Zayn’s door is open and he can hear people outside his room, all talking, excited to run on the grass and jump into the lake, just like tradition says they should. He is not sure about jumping head first into cold water only wearing his pants, but somewhere deep inside he knows he should, build a memory for years to come, one of those moments you will retell to the same ears for years to come, until you don’t really remember what happened, rather the story you build around it. The good parts, the embellished ones. Maybe he is excited. Maybe he is anxious. Maybe the good feelings are somewhere, maybe just next to the sinking feeling he has about not having the comfort of the bed he slept in for the last 7 years. Of missing the big window with sharp angles and grey stone, the light from the lake just outside, close enough to wet your fingers if you just reach far enough. Zayn knows it’s possible, Louis tried and succeeded when they were 12.

In times like these, Zayn reasons with himself, times you know are great flagstones in your life, it’s impossible not to reminisce, it’s okay to be emotional about this really. Zayn thinks about the last years, the place that became more and more like his home, where he learned how to be himself and the place he made his family. Made them, yes. Because he knows blood means nothing really. So those old stones, and tall ceilings are nothing if not his home. Back at the Malik household it was just an all consuming numbness. Like he was an imposing ghost for a too-busy-doing-nothing mother and self-absorbed asshole of a  father. Those people he shares DNA and uncomfortable silences. He doesn’t hate them anymore, doesn’t know them enough to hate and that feels worse, somehow.  

Maybe that’s why the last time he spoke to his mother was in January for his birthday. She was calling about some Versace handkerchief, but her voice had that characteristic humidity about it and they ended up talking and out of nowhere she was wishing him a happy birthday anyway. His father’s assistant sent him a very nice and respectable bottle of Dalmore he technically wasn’t aloud to drink. The note said it was a pleasure to do business with him. The signature said King. Like those words he could always close his eyes and listen to; “You are a Malik, Zayn. Act like it.”.

Zayn always hates the way his feelings tend to get plummeted to the ground when he thinks about his family, so he just doesn’t. Doesn’t think about them, doesn't talk to them or spend time with them. Not since Doniya went away. It still hurts and he is not a fan of hurting. They mean nothing, they are just people with the same last name as his.

He sighs and returns to the safe, almost pleasant melancholia brought on by graduating school. The achievements and lost chances. The first times, the second ones, the last ones as well. The first kiss, the first crush, the first failed test, all the parties and football games. The last chance to fuck things up. He likes the school in the end of it all, hidden in that place he keeps his feelings. He likes the sharp roofs, big trees and great grounds in the distance. The way snow falls uniformly during winter, just like soft velvet, mercilessly cold on the skin, the frozen lake outside his window, the piles of orange and golden leaves every September and all the bees during spring, all the pretty flowers and little lambs no one is sure where they come from. He loves the way he can walk to the forest and get high with Louis and Niall, and see stars at seven in the afternoon. He likes the emerald green and pure silver of his ties and scarfs, and the way nobody talks over him in class.

He likes the four tables in the dining hall and the friendly competition with the other dorm houses. He loves the football tournaments and the trips to the village just outside school with the really good candy store and the pub that doesn’t card. He likes being in Salazar’s dorm and waking up around sharp angles and glass walls, the grey stones and the sound of water, the yellow light from the chandelier in the common room. He’s learned a lot, Zayn thinks, came a long way from the painfully awkward boy with crippling shyness he arrived with. He looks around the room and doesn’t want to strip down the posters yet, he has time. A whole week of time. All the time in the world. Zayn is not sure how that came about, his love for the school. He realises he is nowhere near as cool as he likes to believe he is. Maybe this is growing up, realising you are weird and pathetic.

Outside, the sun is obscene, all the promise of summer, pressuring for optimism. Zayn sees his friends sitting in the grass, just outside from the bigger trees, groups of friends scattered in the fields around campus. The exams are over and there is nothing to do but panic and obsess about the future, promises of keeping in touch over the summer and university. It’s not like they don’t already have their futures planed, trust funds to be given access any day now. Family names to live up to in the prestigious school of choice and a nice little decorative diploma to go on the good taste office with a view and glass doors. Zayn is not worried about keeping in touch with friends, he heard all the little promises don’t mean much when there’s memories to be made. Zayn is sure he will keep in touch with some of the people from school, while others will fade in the backgrounds of photographs in the bottom of his drawers. He will probably still meet them at whatever black tie event in the future. Others will stick with him like a tattoo, quite literally even.

He walks up to the shade of the big oak tree, the lake in the distance and the greenhouses in the corner, Louis seeing him and yelling “Malik, over here”, as if he wouldn’t know the shape of Liam’s shoulders in the sun, his legs in the shade. He sits down on a blanket that was probably handmade in Ethiopia or something, and grabs at Liam’s knees to make the boy look up from the graphic novel he is reading and smile. Louis started rambling the moment he saw Zayn approaching and he likes that, he likes being able to just chill with his best friends, it’s easy and calm, warmer than the sun.

“Are you guys going to the lake later?” he asks them, and Louis is not impressed that he was not listening to whatever he was saying. Liam just nods and continues reading Sandman.

“Yes, Zayn, of course we’re going, haven’t you heard me at all for the last three days? Niall said he would meet us by three. I think he got someone to buy beer for him. It is idiotic that we are not allowed to drink on school grounds. Like we haven’t been drinking since thirteen, absurd really. But Niall is Irish, isn’t he? And it is beer.”

Louis says and shrugs, like being irish is enough to explain Niall’s ability to sneak contraband. Louis has this thing that he really seems like a dick at first. He really is a dick, so you can never say he is fake. He is loud and obnoxious, afraid that people will forget about him the moment he stops talking. So he talks a lot of shit, desperate for the validation of all eyes on him. But the thing about Louis is that while everybody is watching, he is watching back, carefully, ready to study you, all your tells, for better or worst. He is also a very accomplished entrepreneur, organizing the network and distributing of all contraband around campus, liquor to make-up, while having perfect grades and being team of Salazar’s football team. “It’s not dealing if it’s for friends Zaynie”, Louis told him once.

“He also told me about a party a bunch of the Badgers are having later and they always have the best parties. Remember those brownies they had last year before easter? Those were sick mate, I don’t think that Shia kid totally recovered from  them,  to be honest.”

He knows exactly what party Louis is on about, but to be honest, Zayn barely has any memory of the night in question himself, relying on visual aid, which he takes as proof the party was, indeed, sick. Louis has also told the same story about hooking up with Eleanor, the Head Girl from Rowena Ravenclaw Hall that day so many times, Zayn has almost reconstructed the night back in his brain from Luis perspective.

“The night you shaged Eleanor? Of course I remember, you wouldn’t shut up about it for the whole term.” Louis flips him, but his cheeks are a shade pinker. “But yeah, a party would be sick. You still have some candy Aiden hooked up, yeah?

“Of course, how kind of you to remind me of dear Eleanor, Zaynie. She is wild, maybe we can reconnect. And no candy, but some acid left, I guess.”

“You are disgusting, Louis.” Zayn is surprised Liam decided to join in the conversation and when he looks at Liam he really does have a look of mild disgust in his face, maybe something to do with his chronicle monogamy issues and still recovering from the almost/maybe pregnant Brianna situation.

“Yeah, Louis, aren’t you with Brianna?” Louis opens his mouth to talk “You know what? I don’t care, fuck them both, fuck them together, but wear a condom this time for fuck’s sake. I can’t go through that scare again mate. And did Niall tell you, umm, do you know if Harry will be there later?” Zayn asks, going for nonchalant, but he doesn’t think he succeeds,  for the way Louis is narrowing his eyes in suspicion and shutting up, mouth still open. He knows he missed the mark of discretion when Liam starts grinning in a teasing, mean manner.

“Harry Styles? Niall’s friend Harry? Aren’t you ambitious,” Liam snorts, smirk on his face. “And will you be on acid? Be careful Zaynie, your emotions will show.”

“Well, excuse me Liam, but  just because Sophia didn’t fuck you, and you don’t believe in love anymore doesn’t mean Harry will turn Zayn down. Have you seen his cheekbones? Have you seen his glare and pout routine? You can totally shag that bloody hipster Zaynie, I believe in you. Lima is just being bitter”. And everything Louis is saying should be nice but it’s somehow ruined by the condescending pat to the knee.

Liam still looks distrustful and it’s all very unhelpful. You see, people think Liam is the nice one, with all his smiles and crinkly happy eyes and Head Boy responsibilities, but actually, he is very far from being nice, he is actually just high all the time. That way of smiling and nodding his head like a happy puppy and the ability to show up places in a respectable attire and not being late granted him the right to pose as the sensible of the group. Such lies he has the good people to believe in. Although Liam can be really sweet and focused and borderline obsessed with responsibility, he was easily corruptible to mischief long six years ago when he met Zayn and then Louis. Now he devises plans to sneak out and sneak girls in his dorm. Only if people knew all the scheming and cheating he had done on those geography papers. Neither are people aware of the small plantation of weed he has created  in the bathroom no one uses on the second floor. In fact, out of the three of them Zayn likes to think of himself as the nice one, since Louis wasn't even qualified to be considered nice anyway.

Zayn has done very well for himself in academic achievements through the years. Has been a good friend and wrote papers for both Liam and Niall, Louis being freakishly smart, has even had the decency of learning how to imitate their handwriting when needed be, granting them both an A in Geography and English respectively. He covered for Louis shenanigans countless times, feigning the kind of ignorance that was borderline daftness. He is the one who actually never lied to a member of the school staff, being very good at bending truths and hiding all his shit very well. The one who never cheated at anything and always resorted to minimal mayhem. He returns all the books he borrows from the library on time and is also very polite and keeps quiet after nine. He loves dogs, and cats and birds and fishes. Good personality traits really. Very nice Zayn.

Zayn supposes he is being ambitious with his interest in Harry, the reason he never pursued anything with him before, knows he is really out of his league. If he thinks of himself as nice he is not sure what to think about Harry at all. Harry Styles who is always surrounded by the cool people, the girls with changing hair colour and loud laughter. Getting drunk at parties and apologising to furniture, coughing around a bowl with pink lips. Hair in the wind and singing in empty corridors with his joyful friends, cool friends in colorful shirts and yellow and black ties. Zayn always feels inadequate looking at them, not shiny enough to belong in there, in their beautiful pictures, but Zayn looks anyway.

 

Zayn doesn’t remember the first time he saw Harry, probably in the Great Hall, where the ceiling is so tall you can almost pretend it’s enchanted. Zayn likes to think their eyes crossed and met briefly when Harry was called to his table and his house. Maybe thinking they would end up together, wishing Zayn would follow him. Zayn likes to think Harry smiled at him, one of these secret smiles they have been sharing for the last six years. He likes to think Harry is watching back, even if Zayn didn’t follow him, looking for Zayn in the middle of his quietness, all the books and tea-stained homeworks, watching his friends in the football field and smoking too much. Or maybe Zayn does remember the  way their eyes met that first day of September, six years ago and have never stopped looking for each other again.

So Zayn knows how Harry, shiny happy Harry is always reading or writing something down. Or taking pictures with his old Canon camera, long hair falling around his face. The way Harry’s fingers touch everything he sees, index first, or how he is never loud in his smiles, the bottom crooked tooth never showing, how he is generous with his time and how he stopped wearing his glasses, except when there is too much pollen and his eyes close and nose gets pink. How his lips are always raw and swollen, the way his eyes go sad sometimes and how his body shifts and bounces when he is nervous, hands at his back, words announced carefully, slowly, how he is always polite and kind and hardworking.

He knows Harry, knows he keeps a lot to himself, like that secret smile they share. He knows Harry even if they have only shared five words, maybe, in the last year. But he knows Harry is like him in some ways not even Liam could ever understand, that he is quiet too, that he likes the silence too. That maybe Harry knows him as well, maybe Harry thinks about him as well. Fuck it, Zayn thinks, rolling a joint. He knows, has seen Harry, knows 90 percent of the school is in love with Harry and that the other 10 can be easily persuaded by an up close glance of a famous dimpled smile, knows he is probably way out of his league, but Zayn knows he really is ambitious. And a little desperate. He has no time, a week is no time at hall, he thinks as he lights up.

* * *

 

Maybe it’s magic, the way the dorm building related to the personalities of its inhabitants, maybe it’s profiling, but it is clearly a thing that happens Zayn thinks as he looks around the room. He feels very good, he feels welcome, but Zayn is sure he would have trouble sleeping anywhere near those quilted sheets the Hufflepuffs had in their common room. They have bean bags and fucking handmade clay shit around the room. Their ceiling is low and the walls paneled with dark wood. The artwork around the room is very weird and yet, somehow, compelling. It’s cozy, elegant in a way. Zayn likes the memorabilia from random the alumni brought back from exotic vacation spots and the builtin bookcases. It’s just so different from the industrial minimalist luxury they have going on in his common room it makes him a bit confused. In a good way though, the way some people make him feel. A person. Harry, really.

Niall met them exactly at three. And exactly at five past three Zayn begun to drink. It’s around eight now and he’s in deep. The acid dripping slowly behind his eyes, at the tip of his fingers, just around the corner of his mind. All the fabrics seemed so appealing, all the colours that littlest bit brighter. The smiles all that nicer and bigger and better and more delicious. Layers and layers of music and sound. Liam and Louis are long gone, unstoppable after the third beer. The party is somewhat of an underground affair, the kind the whole years shows up to, but no one the school staff is particularly worried about this kind of thing. All the rich kids doing stupid shit in closed quarters is something as sure to happen as the changes of the moon. The nursery could deal with another broken bone. One more OD is just one more wing to the library and the low pregnancy rates was really something to be proud of.

They were all in this together, sweeping the same dirt under the same proverbial Persian rug. Zayn used to be a bit disgusted by all the hypocrisy, but then he understood hypocrisy is just the name people give to the mask they all wear when the sun is shining. He learned to see the real faces and the real personalities under all the protocol. To see what is behind the appearances, it’s all still there, the people, the rotten, the ugly you just have to look past the sensible haircut and pleasant smiles. Become fluent in the literacy of furtive glances and unsaid words. The language of his people, be aware of the fact  that he is one of them. Privileged.

There are people dancing in the corner and the room is unusually packed, all the familiar faces around Zayn, and he could feel the energy of the room in his veins. He grabs a bottle of Dom by the neck and takes a sip. He usually thinks _Dom Perignon_ is tacky and vulgar but it is only a Wednesday, so maybe it is appropriate. The bubbles go to his head and to his nose and he cannot help the grin on his lips. So he takes another sip. _Was the bottle Niall’s? Maybe that kid with the hyphenated last name? Whatever. This party is fun. Funny. Like bubbles, such a silly word, isn’t it?_ Zayn thinks to himself, giggling a little. His eyes are so heavy he can feel the way they are almost closed. His cheeks hurting just a bit from smiling when his eyes find the ones he is always looking for.

Zayn can not be sad that Harry is not his. It is impossible to be sad watching Harry with his stupid big smile, dancing with his friends, painted by the warm colours of the room, rosy cheeks, red lips, green eyes. _Pink, red, green._ The pattern of his shirt, the tightness of his trousers, the curve of his feet. And of course Harry is barefeet at a party. Wearing nothing but black, Zayn is  feeling inadequate now. He should have colours, like Harry. But Zayn can not be sad. Not with the way Harry’s eyes were on his, the smile growing impossible on the red lips. Pink cheeks, red mouth, green eyes. Zayn could not take his eyes off of Harry. Not the first time, probably not the last either. Zayn wishes he could say he was speechless, but he wasn’t saying anything. Maybe he can talk to Harry in his mind. Repeating _notice me. Notice me. Notice me. Talk to me. Dance with me. Love me. Love me. Love me. I love you. Can I say that? I love you. Dance with me. Talk to me. Please. Please. Please. Please_ , like a mantra, like he could make Harry hear his desperation without saying a word at all.

And maybe it is magic, maybe Harry heard all the pleading in Zayn’s fucked up mind. Maybe Zayn was saying things out loud. Maybe, but Harry is there, reaching for something and just like that Zayn is handing it to him, the bottle, his heart, the glass little warm at the neck, where Zayn was holding it..

It’s probably just for a few seconds, but in Zayn’s mind, whole lives could have been lived in the time they used before blinking. It feels like they are old acquaintances, which in fact they are, but it feels like more, like the encounter they were always supposed to have, to sort out those secret smiles and barely there stares.

Harry speaks first. “You can say anything to me, just take me with you.”

And of course Harry can answer questions Zayn wasn’t sure he needed the answer to. So Zayn takes no time in grabbing his extended hands, going through the door and into the night, or the corridor, with wobbly legs, shaking hands as Harry leads the way.

The thing about Harry is that he, like Zayn, was always an outsider. Sure, he has the trendy friends, the scene kind of group, but Zayn has spent far too much time creeping to be blinded by the sheer force of his fake smile and to not notice the way Harry does not fall into place. The way his smile is sometimes just the wrong shade of yellow, not reaching his eyes. How he lets people treat him just the wrong side of nicely, words cutting deep without him making a sound, going along because he is too tired to say anything. They are different in that, Zayn is not afraid to use his words and say loud and clear to people to fuck the fuck off, the only words he is not afraid of. Zayn burns in his need to find himself and Harry is trapped by who he is. Maybe they could find each other, Zayn wonders, his mind doing loop-de-loops. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Harry listens to the words he can’t say and Zayn sees Harry, Zayn sees it all. Maybe they can find each other, Zayn thinks as  Harry looks at him dead in the eyes and smiles. His pupils eating his eyes slowly. Languidly, like the way Harry spoke earlier, or ever, really.

 

They walk around for a long time it seems, not saying a word. They end up by the lake, the deep steel blue of water reflecting the stars. The sky doing that spiral thing it does. June skies with all the stars too far away or close enough for Zayn to grab them. Do stars tell the future? Zayn wonders. Maybe all it takes is looking at them to know everything he needs to know. He turns to look at Harry for the first time since they left the party, not knowing how to look at him without devouring him. All the pink and red and green blinds him, overwhelms him. It’s just like him to finally be alone with Harry and not know how to act, how to think.

Zayn’s heart feels out of control. His breathing is not natural anymore, it is now an active effort he has to make to inhale and exhale oxygen. And maybe Zayn forgets one of the steps, breathe in and out because he is in fact breathless as he walks besides Harry. He feels like Icarus, about to touch the sun. Zayn can feel the heat of Harry’s stare in waves. He wishes he was brave enough to just look at Harry. No more stolen glances and carefully crafted enigmatic sights. He wishes for solid ground where he can start talking. And Zayn wants to ask things, tell Harry things, but he doesn’t know where to begin. And maybe the stars are just what's left of something great, the past with the lights on. Echoes of something great and nothing more. Ruins that have no meaning.

Zayn once heard or read somewhere that things are what we make of them, so fuck the stars. He will make them his witness of the start of something great. And it is great. The way he could just reach for Harry’s free hand, the one just by his hand. His palms are sweaty but maybe. _Maybe._

Zayn takes a deep breath. He can be brave. He thinks he might die as he touches Harry’s hand. It’s the first time they touch, Zayn realises. And his hands are sweaty and Harry’s hands are cold. But that touch, the contact of skin on skin feels too much, not enough. Harry’s hands are bigger than his and his fingers are long, endless as they touch Zayn’s wrists. They are both wearing too many rings and they should clash. And it should feel uncomfortable, the clumsiness of his hand in Harry’s cold one but Harry intwines their fingers and it isn’t uncomfortable. It isn’t too much. It’s not enough.

They somehow find each other’s eyes. It feels a bit like staring at the sun. All that green looking at him. Eyes that are not supposed to be shining like they are. Eyes like bright light and Zayn is the night fly. They are so close. Only their hands are touching and Zayn feels invincible, untouchable. Infinite. Zayn is not sure who takes a step closer and says,

“I remember the first time I saw you,” and who answers, “I remember you too.”

Harry chuckles a bit and maybe the mood changes and somehow they are sitting at the edge of the universe, or so it seems. All the water and all the stars.  Harry is right by his side, hands still locked with each other.

“I was wearing my sister’s jumper because I didn’t want to say goodbye to her. It was a lavender one, too big for me and it was really fluffy. I really liked it, but that Ryle kid made fun of me, called me a faggot. I didn’t care because I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, not yet anyway. And my sister told me it was ok to like purple and stuff. It’s funny now that Ryle was cought fucking Jeremy yeah? Ironic. She's older than me. My sister. And she’s only my sister on my mum’s side, but I don’t think it matters. I only get to see her during half the summer, because I’m a boy and belong to my father and he hates my mum.”

Harry scratches his nose with his free hand and Zayn sees him, how his posture changes when he talks about his family, how younger he seems. Zayn knows all that crap, he also has a big sister that is way more capable than he’ll ever be. A big sister that seems like the bearer of all wisdom, the bravest person Zayn’s ever met.  Zayn touches Harry’s shoulder with his nose.

And maybe it’s inappropriate to be like this. To feel like this. But it’s Harry and somehow it makes it all okay. Like Zayn is supposed to touch his hands and talk about the important things by the lake when there is a party with all their friends and their blood is swimming with chemicals. Thick and sickening. There is something about them together that makes Zayn feel like the night belongs to them. That they are alone in the best way. Like the whole world is their for the taking. But Harry is still talking.

“I remember that first day, you looked lost, like you didn’t know anybody and that’s strange, yeah? Because here, everyone knows everyone since, like, ever, but you were new. You never looked lost again, but I remember seeing you during the welcome feast and I remember knowing in that moment when you looked at me that you were the first person to ever feel like me. I don’t know how I knew. I don’t even know how I felt or how I feel but you feel the same, don’t you?”

And Zayn does.

“I dreamed about you that night,” he tells Harry, like he could somehow explain to him how he always thinks about that night. The first time he looked over, almost by accident and found those same green eyes he is staring at now, the same bright light. How that first shared secret sometimes feels like the only thing he has that belongs only to him. The way Harry smiled like he knew Zayn, like he understood. And if Zayn could be totally honest he would tell Harry that he dreamed about him at least once every night, but Zayn is trying to be 80% honest and not a creepy ‘I want to skin you and wear you as my coat’ percent honest.

“Yeah?” Harry’s eyes are so big, his pupils still blown wide, wider than before.

“Yeah, we were leaving on a train. To get here, yeah? And it was red. Like one of those old trains, with the smoke and all. And then there was this hat thing that could read our minds and I was scared shitless. And you were there and you held my hand and told me it was okay to be scared.”

Zayn remembers waking up from that dream, the first one he could remember about Harry. It was a dream from a time he didn’t know how not to be scarred. He never learned how not to be, but now he can pretend it doesn’t bother him. That it doesn’t burn hot, the way he kind of always wished for someone to hold his hands and tell him it was okay. That it would be ok. It would be a lie, but a very sweet one. Zayn wonders if it is okay for him to feel the things he feels.

He should feel powerful and in control, comfortable in a role assigned to him long ago. He should feel like he pretends to be, all sharp edges with a shaved head and street wear. First tattoo at fourteen, some stupid Friday scribbled on his collarbone. He still really likes that tattoo. Louis did it with some needle and some ink, like he was some kind of gangster and not a prick with a networth and royal connections.

“I don’t dream all that much,” Harry says. “I never remember dreaming, most often. I’m some kind of Freudian nightmare.” Harry shrugs with his whole body and then stops walking. He lies on the wet grass, his feet are dirty and his shirt on it's way to be ruined. “I wish I could though. Dream. I want to dream like you, with details and stories. But I suppose I already do in a way, yeah? I wish I could dream with you Zayn. Make all my dreams about you.”

* * *

 

 

Zayn always knew he was different from everybody around him; he had the same silver spoons, but he ate differently. He had a lot of money, but he had new money. Not like a golden ticket or national lottery kind of new money, but not like hyphenated types of last name so common around the castle. His family was not in any book, you couldn’t find his ancestry, nor had he relatives-in-an-oil-portrait-hanging-in-hallways type of money. His blood was as red as they came and his father's hands were still kind of dirty from the things he to do to get rich like they are now. That’s why Zayn was enrolled in this kind of school.  

Zayn is the one who has to legitimize his last name. That’s why his father married his mother. That's why Zayn is not brown enough, not white enough. That’s why his difference from his peers was very clear the moment he arrived in the castle. The kind of money Zayn brought with him though, it was enough for the most elitist, most condescending blue-blooded-asshole to welcome him with open arms. He knows it is, because it happened. Louis did just that. Extended a hand to him the first day of class, when he was lost and lonely and he kind of never let it go, dragging Zayn along. So he is very grateful for Louis and his kind of fucked up generosity. The kind of open arms and call to arms in one firm handshake at the tender and naive age of eleven. Now Zayn knows they all share the same fate, that they do share the same silver spoons. But back then, it felt like a big deal, to shake hands with the likes of Louis. The ones with styled hair and monogrammed notebooks.

Now Zayn knows how to read people. Now he knows how stupid, irresponsible and fucked up all of them are. Louis and then Liam thought Zayn a lot of things and showed him many more, fun things, things he is sure he will remember as the best in the world in some years. The good old days. And isn’t that strange, Zayn thinks, to know you are living the best days of his life. Isn’t it strange to know you are living the best night of your life.

 

Zayn was ten when he got his first proper watch as a gift. He doesn’t exactly remember the occasion, but he knows he really wanted the Power Rangers morpher thing more than any Rolex. Zayn remembers the watch perfectly, it was rectangular with big black leather straps and it didn’t fit his wrist. It wasn’t exactly an appropriate gift for a ten year old, but it was just so perfect for a Malik.

Of course it was.

It’s funny how Zayn kind of wishes he had the watch now. Just to see it ticking. Just to look at the numbers and see if he really has been living this moment, if the hours are really going by and maybe midnight will strike and he will become a pumpkin - never mind the shoes.

Harry isn’t wearing shoes. Fuck shoes. Fuck everything that isn’t Harry. They are somehow lying side by side, shoulders to toes and all Zayn can think is that Harry is by his side, his profile in the starlights. The way his hair falls in the grass. His mouth, his pointy nose, his jawline. All the things Zayn wishes were his to kiss and lick and taste and maybe bite. If Harry wanted him to.

* * *

 

Harry is all he can think about the next day, when the sun is shining and Zayn is stuck inside, because he is still at school and it’s a Thursday. One more week. Zayn is not sure if it’s a good thing. He isn’t particularly hungover because he is eighteen and the universe loves him. He is full of regrets though.

Zayn regrets not leaning over, barely a centimeter, and kissing Harry. He regrets not reaching for Harry’s neck and pulling him closer and closer until they melted together. Zayn thinks maybe it is for the best, but he can’t stop picturing their first  kiss, obsessing about how Harry would taste like weed and red haribo gummy bears. Thinking about it so much he can almost feel his lips tingling as they would be after kissing enough for his mouth to be raw and sensitive. He regrets not combing his fingers through Harry’s hair and feeling the muscles in Harry’s back, the way they would feel when Harry’s breath hitched around a kiss in his neck. The width of Harry’s back underneath Zayn’s palms, greedy palms as they would be.

But he can’t be sad. Maybe it was for the best, Zayn is sure he would implode if his lips touched Harry’s, all his senses in overload. So Zayn can’t be sad as he can’t quite believe the fact he got to be by Harry’s side at all. How they got to share smiles that weren’t all that secretive anymore, but open and honest and maybe a bit conspiratorial. Maybe it was a very vivid hallucination the LSD in his brain made possible, personifying a deep desire of Zayn’s unconscious mind. _Maybe._ Even then, Zayn can’t be sad. Because for a few hours it was real as the stars above them.

 

 Louis picks up on Zayn’s mood.   “You are one moody wanker Zayn, stop sulking for fuck’s sake, I want to talk to you. So, about Brianna. She is fit as fuck. But Eleanor is too and I didn’t remember that. Do you think she is fit?  Who was she with recently? Do you think she would go for me again? Are you listening to me? Liam make him listen to me.”

Liam insists that Louis is vile and that Zayn is hungover. Like an overprotective mother he offers help and it is infuriating.

“Do you want me to get you something for your head? You look a little dead bro, some water, yeah? Do you need some weed? Maybe you should get some more sleep. You have like crazy eyes mate.”

Zayn suspects he do it in purpose. They are both extremely annoying and extremely wrong. But Zayn does feel weird. Odd. Out of place in his skin. His heart feeling crazy and anxious. Tachycardia. He looked it up. He thinks it might be love and he kinds of hate it. Hates how physical the ache of knowing how Harry shines when he is alone with Zayn is. To know how his words come out slowly, like each and every letter is important, like each word means something else and he cherishes them. It actually hurts to know how Harry smells and the shape of his toes. To feel Harry’s hands on his. To know how their fingers match even when their rings don’t. Feels like somethings is missing to know how Harry’s eyes looked, brighter than Zayn had ever seen before when his locked on Zayn’s eyes by the lake. He had it all at his reach. A centimeter too far. He had it all a few hours ago. He knows now.

The days went by uneventful like many others before him. The misery of an uneventful day comes to the foolish people with great expectations. A hidden agenda, life changing desire. Zayn is counting the hours until he makes a fool of himself, waiting for Harry, wishing for Harry. Wishing on a fucking star to feel Harry again. It was only hand holding but it feels like so much more. He has his watch with him now, which is typical of his life, how the shit he doesn’t need is always at an arm's reach when he doesn’t want any of it. Shit he doesn’t need but always want anyways. None of what he needs when he needs it. The black leather stripe fits perfectly on his wrists and it fits him.

Five hours until the sunrise. Five hours until he has to pretend to be the sane one. It’s almost a relief, the mask, the charade they all live in a little. Putting on the normal face for the day. Having a truce with the almost deep soul searching. Maybe he should be worried about finding it so natural, to carry on differently in the sunlight. Sharper and harder. He isn’t. He likes that Zayn better. He is mad at how he had Harry by his side and he hates how he can feel the loss of Harry’s body next to his.

He hates how he doesn't hate it at all. How he loathes all people that had felt the same before, had written and talked about it. Transformed this very same feeling in songs and movies and paintings. Zayn wishes he had some way to be original in his words about falling in love for the first time, or rather realisation of it. Acknowledging what was within every state and barely there smile. Every dream and imagined conversation. How those secret smiles carved a way deep like a canyon in his mind and heart and liver and stomach. Zayn wishes he had more talent at expressing anything other than anger and foolish desires because he is sure no one ever felt this way before. No one can understand how he feels. Like Harry is the sun, the whole light and warmth in the world.

And maybe Zayn is the night, the moon or just a fly around a bright light. Either way he has no chance. No chance at all. A pawn. Fragile under Harry’s will.

Zayn doesn’t see Harry all day. And he hates it more than anything. The sharp feeling in his gut when he can’t see Harry at all. He sleeps with his watch on his wrists, clamped tight, wondering how long until he can have Harry by his side again.

Zayn is sitting alone, some people scattered around. He’s been reading that Murakami book, going over and over again the words on paper. Words on his lips as he recites them. Just to feel the shape it takes on his tongue. _“I’m not doing anything that is going to destroy me. Still, there is something quiet left behind. Like sediment in a bottle of wine.” ****_

He licks his lips and feels the bitter of the coffee he’s drinking. A coffee and then a cigarette and his thoughts and his books. He licks his lips again chasing the taste of coffee and smoke. He shouldn’t smoke inside he supposes, but no one cares. There is no staff to be found anywhere and even then it’s whatever. At least it’s a legal substance for once in their life. Zayn likes smoking. Likes the feel of smoke filling his lungs and then the way the smoke drifts in the air. He likes the way it makes him feel and even the way it makes him look. He specially likes the way he says he’s going outside when the room is too crowded to smoke and no one questions him, or the way he has something to do with his hands when he’s nervous. It’s a crutch. Zayn knows. But sometimes Zayn feels like he has two broken legs and no strength in his upper body.

He’s an addict. And Zayn knows it’s bad and all. He shouldn’t do it at all. But he needs it. He needs few things in his life, he supposes, a cigarette is the easy one. Harry Styles is the confusing one. And maybe it’s magic, the way Zayn looks up to see Harry by the entrance of the Great Hall, the gothic arch of the entrance looking like the only thing worthy of surrounding Harry. Sharp angles, soft traces, delicate work. Elegant and subtle. Even if Harry feels more like a baroque kind of guy, all exaggerated eyes and plush mouth and array of long limbs and emotions. Not to mention the curls.

Harry is with friends, as per usual. A flock of laughter and pink cheeks. The picture of youth and good health and happiness and the salt of the earth. Zayn kind of feels a little nauseous about it. Or he would be, if it wasn’t Harry. As on a cosmic cue Harry looks away from a girl who is honest to god named Pixie and looks at Zayn. And Zayn takes it back, he can definitely puke right now. Harry is not smiling anymore, nor is there  any trace of light hearted friendly fun in his eyes. He is intense and surprisingly soft. Emotion on his eyes Zayn cannot understand.

He knows Harry is like he is in many ways. Lonely and sometimes quiet, even in ways Zayn is not. Zayn knows that Harry is less impulsive than he seems. That Harry feels deep and slow when Zayn likes to think he doesn’t feel at all. But Zayn’s heart is on his sleeve, where Harry’s heart is locked away somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, like it isn’t his anymore. And maybe it isn’t. Zayn doesn’t understand that look in Harry’s eyes, but he recognizes it. He is sure he is wearing it right now. Right now as he looks at Harry across the Hall. Harry in yellow and black and with all his friends. Sometimes Zayn wonders if he knows Harry so well, without knowing him at all, as a result of knowing what's missing in himself. So he smiles at Harry and his heart does something funny when Harry smiles back. Not the fluttering, beating fast and furious thing, but the settling thing. The hold on, we’re going home thing.

 

The thing about love or rather falling in love is that it’s not an easy feeling. It’s a rather inconvenient one. It’s distracting and annoying. Uncomfortable. Especially when Zayn is trying very hard to have a good time. It’s another day, another party. The nervous energy around campus manifesting through extensive destructive/constructive social behavior. Not a full week until all of them have to deal with the pressures of the real world. The pressure of a reality they were fated to. Golden cribs of opportunity and wealth. And there is change in pressure they say. Zayn can surely feel the changes all around him, all these people he used to know. The special feeling you get when you know you are going to forgive and forget and everything is beginning to feel just a little bit blurry around the edges. All the interactions tinted with rose colored glasses of misplaced nostalgia. Zayn could not deny the underlying understanding around him and all his colleagues.

They share the same expectations, slight variations in background and bank account. Different ways to deal with the situation, all of them varying from bad decisions all the way through bad habits. These days, these odd days when they are not sure why they are still in school grounds, other than waiting for the future to start, and odd limbo of anxiety and regret and naive optimism. These days the party is a living organism, infectious and self sustainable. Every gathering of friends, however small or inconspicuous turns to be an event of epic proportion. Every color present, green, red and yellow, and blue. Beer and weed and pills sprouting from the ground. A metaphor Zayn thinks is especially appropriate for this particular party, just outside the greenhouse on the outskirts of the woods.

He is sitting in something soft like silk and Niall is right besides him, so close he can feel the heat of Niall’s knees on his tight. Can feel the digging of bone in flesh. Niall reaches for the joint Louis is offering and Zayn misses him a lot in the second it takes for him to sit back again. Niall smokes one, two, three times and passes it to Zayn. Zayn feels a little bit stupid. Sitting in the shade when there is no sun. The trees making a canopy, protecting them from nothing at all. Sitting on pashmina and silk so as not to ruin designer jeans. He feels stupid for waiting for a particular shade of green to come across his path. He feels stupid for letting his heart free to wonder. He feels like everybody knows how he feels inside his brain. That he is in  _love. In love with a boy. ****_

And this is the thing with love, now that Zayn is resigned to it, it’s an unsettling feeling of dissatisfaction. He wants Harry. He needs Harry. He wants to enjoy this party, but he is not sure when he will stop thinking about Harry. It’s a disaster.

__

Niall and Louis are having a loud conversation about music. Niall waving his hands around about some piano arrangement. Louis looks impressed and amused. The talk is too specific for Zayn to join now and Liam is snoging Sophia again. Some people are standing and trying to dance but the mood of the night is different, some type of late night picnic rather than full on rave. Zayn is left to his thoughts while something like Vampire Weekend plays in the background. Passing the joint on and letting the smoke out with some flourish. He likes this type of party. Harry could lie down and rest his head in Zayn’s lap, right where Niall is digging on Zayn’s thigh with his bony knee. Harry could lie down and be comfortable. He could look up at Zayn and ask silently for a kiss. Zayn would oblige with a sigh and a smile. With a sigh and a smile is how Zayn sees Harry. The same disturbing and settling feeling in his whole body. Like fire burning without any flame. Hurting without pain. Or some other bullshit.

Harry is alone and very beautiful. Hair long and loose around his face. Mouth bitten red and those green eyes. Zayn is alone too. He heard talk of skinny dipping in the lake and there was no way. Just, no. He was somewhat resigned not to see Harry naked that day, so he headed to his room. Harry makes some weird greeting gesture, maybe a wave, maybe a peace sign, as Zayn could ever passed straight through him.

“Hi.” Harry’s vocals are always lazy and long, but this seems different, like words practised in front of a mirror.

“Hi. What are you doing here? Thought you were at the party.” Zayn is very pleased he manages to make his voice not shake. His tone is even and calm to his ears but maybe Harry hears it differently. Harry shrugs

“I was. But I left earlier. Was waiting for you.” Harry closes his eyes at the same time as he closes his mouth. It feels like a choreography somehow. Zayn loves how Harry doesn't care that sometimes you are not supposed to say everything that is on your mind. How Harry forgets to put on his dancing shoes and goes barefoot to a party. Clean shaven to a masquerade ball. Zayn doesn’t know what to say to Harry. Doesn’t know how to be brave and spill his words like Harry. He doesn’t feels strong enough to make a sound, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just grabs Harry’s cold hands and leads him somewhere they can be alone. Alone together.

They are running by the end of the infinite corridor. Still hand in hand, footsteps loud and coordinated on the polished stone. The sound they make is one, echo of a rhythm they make together, hand in hand. One. Zayn’s door is the last one on the left, they are hand in hand and Zayn can feel his ribs aching. It feels unreal the way Zayn opens the door on his first try, hands shaking a little and how Harry is just right there, the one place where Zayn is always alone. They are both breathing hard, Harry’s back against the closed door. Harry’s mouth is just above Zayn’s upper lip, hovering like a promise Harry doesn’t dare to make.

It must be instinct the way Zayn gets just a little closer and puts his hands on either side of Harry’s head, begging for all the things he can’t do alone. They share breaths for what feels like the end of forever and more, and it feels fucking intimate. They breathe together for so long their breaths aren’t shallow anymore, they are deep, the kind of breath you take at the end of a countdown. Full lungs of anticipation.

Zayn closes his eyes and his forehead touches Harry’s chin. _Please_ , Zayn begs in his mind, the mind Harry inhabits and owns. The mind Harry has like an open book. _Please_ , and Zayn can feel Harry’s hand go slowly from his shoulder to the small of his back. It doesn’t feel small at all. It feels larger than life. Infinite. Zayn feels Harry’s wrists on the bare skin under his shirt and opens his eyes.

They are close, closer than Zayn’s ever been to anyone, not just sharing space, not just trading heat but closer. It’s like Harry is everything, like every breath he takes is Harry. Harry is everywhere. Harry is the bright light and Zayn is yet again the night fly. Zayn may crash and burn, might never recover his ways, never come to what he used to call home, but float away in this feeling, engulfed by the warmth and light of Harry’s eyes and smile.  Zayn feels closer than ever to where he is supposed to be.

“Are you sure about this?” He is not sure who asks, not sure if he is hearing his thoughts in his head or in glorious technicolor that is the reality in front of him, but they both answer, “Yes”.

Such simple letters, such a simple word, but it could be a symphony of sounds, cacophony of phonemes for the way Zayn’s heart stops and skips a beat and comes back banging with a vengeance. Harry closes his eyes in slow motion, in contrast to Zayn’s heart beating. It is exquisite pain, it doesn’t feel real, it might be a dream Zayn thinks. But in any dream Zayn wouldn’t move his neck, just barely, and have his lips meet Harry’s.

Zayn freezes for a second. It is real. Harry is gentle in the way he parts his lips and let’s his tongue feel Zayn’s closed lips. Zayn feels his lips parting and when their tongues meet Zayn can see galaxies and the whole Milky Way is his for the taking. Harry makes the softest sound in the back of his throat and Zayn can come right there. They kiss for forty five minutes or seven hours or maybe thirty seconds.

Lips exploring, hands following the lead. Harry’s hands are on Zayn’s neck and on his waist and on his jeans. When Harry palms at Zayn’s cock, Zayn’s lips try to leave Harry’s free because of the sheer force with which his spine curves, chasing pressure and friction. Harry catches Zayn’s mouth with his lips and Zayn never felt this way before. He didn’t know he could feel this way before just from lips touching. Skin on skin. Raw skin of Harry’s lips, salty skin from Harry’s neck. Delicious skin, Harry’s skin. All of Harry, everything.

“What do you want?” Harry’s voice is deep and low and dirty, like the bass in Zayn’s favorite songs, as he traces the hardness in Zayn’s jeans. Zayn doesn’t have to blink, voice even and sure when he says “Everything.” He wants it all.

* * *

 

 

Zayn can barely remember his first kiss. He knows he was kind of drunk on freedom, flavored vodka and the too sweet perfume the girl was wearing. He was thirteen and awkward. Too shy and with a bad haircut his mum insisted it favored his eyes. Louis had kissed a girl from school just before they all parted for summer and mocked Zayn mercilessly all through the vacation they shared. Zayn liked girls alright and he liked the taste of sticky and sparkly lipgloss. It was summer and the sun shined for hours into the night, nights warm with the salty smell of the sea.

 _Maresia_ they said it was called. Zayn didn’t know a smell could have a name at all. He liked kissing and liked that the girl was older, taller. Zayn liked the way she gripped his shoulders hard. That she held his neck to the right, bent her neck to the left to deepen the kiss. That she bit his lips and licked his neck. Zayn doesn’t remember, but he supposes her skin was hot and golden. It was a good kiss and it had been enough to shut Louis up for about five seconds, which is as much as you can ask for. It was a good memory overall, even if Zayn didn’t think about it all that often or had any particular feeling attached to it. Zayn remembers the smell though.  _Maresia._

For a while Zayn thought the problem was with kissing and fucking girls, so he kissed and fucked boys, but all the touches he shared with people he barely remembers had all been a bit dissatisfying, just a blur of barely conscious decisions blamed on alcohol and other names. Blame it on the night and the day won’t blame you for your sins. Zayn hoped it was true. Maybe it didn't matter at all.

After some time he thought he was better off alone. It used to scare him, how he didn’t seem to mind being alone. If every other body was just a passing high of friction and ephemeral pleasure he didn’t mind being alone at all.  Louis and Liam didn’t understand it so they teased him about it too. Sometimes they were right, like how they accused Zayn of being a self absorbed, self forgiving asshole. Too proud, too vain. But sometimes they didn’t understand so they blamed Zany reluctant love life on old vices.  Laughed loud when suggested that Zayn probably wanked looking at a mirror. Zayn laughed too.

He didn’t want a mirror at all, he wanted and wanted something much more tangible. He wanted to feel something. He wanted to do it with the lights on, his brain present and his heart content. He wanted warmth and laced fingers. He wanted and wanted, wished on all the stars for some light and warmth for eyes and smile.

And with green eyes, red lips and pink cheeks Harry is on his knees in front of Zayn. Pale fingers opening the buttons on Zayn’s jeans, hot breath on dark cotton. Zayn is not sure if his lungs expanded to an unnaturally large balloon or if they collapsed under pressure of finding oxygen while his mind wanders through space.

Harry is right there, holding Zayn’s bare thighs and hips with a firm grip, half expecting Zayn to flee, drift away in space. Those lips kissing the inside of Zayn’s  thigh, biting the jutted bone of the hip. Zayn lets out a cry, neck thick and tight, looking to the ceiling, looking for the stars that deserve all the praises. But Harry is right there with stretched lips around the head of Zayn’s cock, silently demanding to be looked at, demanding to be adored in his profane prayer.

Zayn bucks his hips, his cock hitting deep in Harry’s throat. Harry chokes and moans and Zayn feels it everywhere. His body is burning, all of his insides on fire. Harry sucks him with hunger and very little gag reflex. Green eyes holding tight on Zayn’s stare, one hand hidden by the mess of his own skinny jeans and too tight pants. In that moment they are alive. Zayn can feel every cell of his body filled with oxygen and something that tastes of beauty, truth, freedom. Love.

All the blood leaves his head and his limbs. All there is, is Harry’s mouth and the knotted mess on Zayn’s guts. All of Zayn’s muscles tensing as one. All there is, is Harry’s grip on Zayn’s body and Harry’s rhythmic hands on himself. All there is, is the way Harry looks at him all the way to the end. The end of the world it seems. His body exploding like the death of a star, particles of coiled energy drifting in light and no sound. Harry looks at him while holding tight on his hips and swallowing every bit of Zayn, like it’s a religious experience. When Zayn kisses Harry he taste the tanginess of himself and all the promises they can’t say out loud, all the visions for the future from a perfect start.

 

 

If they don’t tell anyone about what they have it’s partly because they don’t have words for it.

How can Zayn tell anyone about the way Harry’s lips can say everything he needs to say in the way he smiles, the way he kisses. The way he bites and leave marks on Zayn that feel like claims and perfect stolen moments everyone else is too distracted to see. Harry can’t find the way to express the way Zayn’s eyes see all his little things. How Zayn knows him, all he things he thought no one could ever understand. The way Zayn’s hands take him apart in one not so hidden niche of a forgotten armour with a hard kiss and a flick of his wrist. The way Zayn builds him back together by the sheer force of his stare and mischievous smile. The one crooked on the right, the one with crinkled eyes.

They don’t say anything to their friends when they see marks on their necks from across the hall and share a secret smile from across the room. They are a promise. There is freedom in secrecy, no explanations needed. Like a dream they dream together. If they don’t tell anyone it’s because they don’t have to, all the smiles they think are secret spilling everywhere, like the marks on necks and backs and ribs, glowing bright red and purple and pink in the sun, the green grass underneath, the lake and the stars and all of their friends witnessing an all consuming flood.

The glass reflects shades of green and purple. Golden yellow around the edges. All the walls around Zayn are bare, stirile white after all his pictures and posters left their rightful place. Zayn feels strangely alone when the only colour around him are the ones Harry gave him. There is a constellation of bruises, patterns of whispers and stolen laughs and quiet moans. Zayn feels strangely alone surrounded by his belongings and memories. Trunks spilling forgotten treasures in the corner. Zayn doesn’t know if all of this is his, he is sure some of the shit he has in his room probably belongs to Louis and Liam, maybe even Niall, not just the things but the memories too.

And Harry, maybe he has some of Harry now. The room feels colder, smaller, quieter, like the walls don’t remember a thing they saw over all these years. All of Zayn’s dreams and tears. In the mirror there is green and purple and golden yellow when it heals. The marks Harry gives him like gifts, a physical memorabilia of the time they spend together.  _We have this,_ Zayn thinks. 

It is a strange feeling. Standing practically naked in front of a mirror, getting ready for one last party. To stand practically naked on the last night of his boyhood, a finish line and a cockpit. Zayn presses his fingers on the finger shaped purple bruise on his hip. A week ago he was a different person, he knew, he was sure his future was a straight line, used to think his life decisions were not his to make. That he gave up control the day he decided to stay quiet about Doniya.

The day he decided he could pretend he was an only child all along. The day he decided the lack of pictures of her didn’t bother him at all. The beautiful girl, the smart girl, the best girl. The girl who would always be that. A girl. A memory. Zayn presses harder on the purple bruise, the one with the green and golden yellow edges. Maybe he can be braver. Maybe he can be better. A week ago he was different. A week ago he didn’t know how to be brave.

 

Zayn was lying on the grass, Harry was in a weird half sitting position. Zayn wasn’t sure about Harry’s friends, but his decided the afternoon was perfect for one last trip to the Hog’s Head. They would never drink such cheap liquor in their lives again, nor would they harvest that special kind of hungover only cheap vodka can provoque, that special kind of shame and regret, so why the fuck not. Zayn and Harry stayed behind, sharing the breeze by the lake, the warm sun on their faces. Sharing old stories from home, common rooms and sometimes just silence. Zayn had a book, Harry had his Canon and all the angles in the world.

“What do you want to be? You know, when you grow up?” Harry asked in the way he had of asking questions, like they were inquiries, like he wanted to test you, catch you in a lie. Eyes honest and wide, hair long and lips so soft. Zayn was the perfect subject, lost behind his own walls and falling in every trap, missing every opportunity to outsmart Harry in their game, to catch him in his lies.

“I am grown up, babe. Do I need to prove it to you?” Sometimes it was easier to pretend, to make Harry forget about the truth and relish the smoke and mirrors of a crooked smile and eyes bright like fool’s gold. But sometimes it was too fake, even for Zayn’s ears, loaded like dices, always facing up in his own lies. The way Harry looked at him like he didn't believe a word out of Zayn's mouth and kissed his neck, a slight touch of soft lips on warm skin had Zayn sharing all his secrets, heart beating fast and brain in overdrive.

Zayn sat up, took skins and his grinder, the metal one Niall gave him for his birthday two years ago. The sound of a fresh bud fighting against sharp hard teeth safe and comforting against the shock of his panic. Zayn was going to tell Harry, he knew he would eventually, he just hoped he had a little more time before words came tumbling down. He was silent while making the joint, tiny pieces of green and orange and purple distributed along fragile translucent paper. Zayn doesn’t have a roach, but he taught Harry how to smoke without one, so it’s fine. Zayn loves this part, the swift part with his thumbs to make a perfect shape. Zayn’s tongue is pink and wet when he licks the joint, Harry watching every motion Zayn makes with hungry eyes. Orange light in Zayn’s face when he lights it up. He takes a drag, smoke coming out of his mouth in beautiful and thick spirals.

“When I was a kid I played alone. I had a tutor and stuff, didn’t know any kids at all and since my sister is seven years older than me, she never wanted to play with me when she was home. And all I wanted was to be like her. I tried to grow my hair, but my dad wouldn’t let me, tried to talk like her and dance like her, but it was a disaster. Every time I saw her she was this different person and she was always the best. She knew everything about anything. When she came home for the summer she brought the sun with her, she brought warmth to my house. She had this laugh, you know?" Harry is still watching, waiting, listening.

"I waited and waited for summer, the day she would come home and smile at me and tell me things no one else would. Just random things about the world, you know? She and my mum were very close, but my dad… I don’t know, it’s bad to say this, but my dad hated her. He hated that she was so bright and pretty. He hated that she was smarter than me, older than me, better than him. But he hated the fact she was a girl the most. And I kind of liked it, I liked being my dad’s favorite. I thought it was a good thing. To be a favorite.”

Zayn’s hand are shaking when Harry grabs them, taking the joint too. Zayn’s voice a little think and horse.  And it is a thing of beauty the way Harry tells him to go on, to let it out, that it’s ok, that he’s listening without saying a word.

“I don’t know how it happened exactly, but Danny, her names is Doniya but we call her Danny, said something at a party for one of my father’s associates. The man laughed and told my dad he was very lucky to have Danny as his successor. It was disgusting the way my dad looked at her. You know how it is. Just another moment in their silent war. But for me it felt like every glass had been shattered, I finally saw my father not as a hero, but as a petty, bigoted asshole. Everyone was looking and no one did anything when they disappeared to a corridor.  My dad was yelling how she would never make him proud, that if she wanted to make people laugh she should join the circus. His hand never left her arm."

"She was seventeen Harry." Zayn thinks he should shut up, but he knows he needs to let this go. To let this words blow in the silence, in the wind, be nothing more then the sound around them. And Harry is right there. Stil right there by his side.

"Later, when I was in my room, I heard my dad screaming some more and Danny was just furious. My mum was crying in a way she never really stopped. I was supposed to be asleep but the nanny didn’t care and no one cared and it was terrible to hear my father and Danny fighting. Then I heard my mum screaming at my father to stop. I never heard anything like that, my mum is the most passive woman I’ve ever met Harry, but I think my father was going to kill Danny. She came to my room and she talked to me, but it was different. She told me she was going back to school, but that she wasn’t coming back. She would always talk to me like I was a person, you know, but that day she didn’t. She was broken, you know? I didn’t say anything to her, I was kind of mad she was leaving, I guess. I was sacred and everything was broken. Everything's still broken. I never saw her again. She is fine though. She lives in Sweden and works for a non profit organization that takes girls away from the streets and puts them in schools in Liberia.”

Zayn’s voice didn’t falter, the sun hadn't stopped shining in that moment. Harry’s eyes weren’t full of mist over a terrible story. Everybody has a terrible story. But Harry reached over to Zayn in silence, pressed his lips to Zayn’s neck once, the tip of his nose making lines in Zayn’s cheekbones. A soft sound telling him he respected Zayn’s pain, that he understood. That he was there. That they were together.

“I guess what I’m trying to say Harry, is that all I want to be when I grow up is brave. I want to be brave."

Harry kissed him with a little sad smile on the corner of his lips. Zayn didn’t have a smile of his own, just the feeling of Harry’s lips on his own. Zayn wondered what Harry saw when he looked at him now, just the same wiry boy with a lot of tattoos? A sad wiry boy with a lot of tattoos? A pathetic boy with a lot of tattoos? Harry still kissed him, mouths closed, just simple contact of mouth to mouth. They held hands, Harry looking deep in his eyes, so close Zayn could see all the different hues of blue and green, the depth of that light that never goes out in Harry’s bright star. Zayn didn’t want to look away, but Harry leaned closer, foreheads touching and Harry’s breath tickling Zayn’s nose.

“It was not your fault Zayn.” And then Harry, as the best human being, kissed him one last time before giving the joint back. And just like that it was over, just like that Zayn decided that Harry didn’t think he was pathetic at all. And just like that Zayn believed in the ludicrous idea that in fact he could be brave. Just like that, and they were back to ignoring the real issues of their lives in favor of a beautiful and lazy afternoon, like the kids they were. But Harry’s hand held Zayn’s tighter and Zayn’s smiles were a lot less guarded, relieved to know he could be someone to be proud of. Someone who shared the worse things of his life, because they were over, or on their way of being a nasty scar on his perfect skin.

“This light is perfect Zayn,” Harry’s words were lazy by sundown, delayed by the joint they were sharing. The shutter on the camera would make the smallest sound, punctuating the paragraphs on Zayn’s book. Harry would press his nose to Zayn’s cheek and whisper, “You are perfect Zayn”. Zayn’s heart would stop, his brain would stop. The whole world would stop for Harry Styles in that light. Zayn was afraid when he looked away from the ink on paper, heart stuck in his throat and vision blurred with adrenaline and THC, but Harry’s eyes were so green, his lips so red, cheeks pink that something in Zayn gave way.

“This is forever isn’t it, Harry? You feel it too?” Harry smiled.

“Right now I love you forever and you love me too”. That was the only promise they ever said out loud.  But the way Harry said things, like he decided they were true, it  was enough for Zayn to believe them, as if words didn’t have a intrinsic graveness to them, an immediate impact. Later, Harry held Zayn so tight it hurt, but in that moment, that singular moment where they shared the same breath, the same heartbeat, in that moment when Zayn fucked Harry deep, eyes locked and Harry’s grip tight like a lifeline, in that moment when they were one, Zayn would let Harry burn him alive from inside out if it was what it took to feel like that forever.

It’s finally the last party for those leaving the school for good. The lights flashing on old stone walls with no windows. The room is packed, the walls sweating along all the jumping bodies synched with the music. Green and yellow lights, red and blue illuminating the lines on shiny surfaces and all the pretty pills left behind. Bottles of water from France and £300 bottles of gin everywhere.

Zayn’s eyelids are heavy and his chest vibrates with the bass. He feels on the top of the world. He could climb mountains with his teeth and shout from the heights. He feels deep in harmony with all the people around him. People that right now are very easy to call  his  friends. In the morning everything will be different, they are all are going to wake up with drooping heads and heavy hearts. That bittersweet aftertaste. Nothing's gonna change, because everything is already changing.

Zayn dances with Liam and Louis, tentative swirls of his hips that reminds him of the way Harry holds him dictating a rhythm for both of them. Zayn dances and everything is hazy, blurry, his mind long gone, everything is sensation, pure feeling on the tip of his fingers, like he can touch the noise and the heat of bodies around him. Zayn dances until his hair is sweaty and sticking  to his temples and his shirt glued to his body.

“This drop is nasty bro,” Liam shouts from somewhere that Zayn can’t see. Zayn nods, sweat dripping on his forehead. Louis is by his side, dancing with a blonde girl, maybe it’s Brianna, but Zayn sees Eleonour right by Louis elbow and somehow he must have convinced both girls to dance with him. Zayn must space out for a bit, cause the next time he looks over at them, they are all kissing somehow, a mess of bodies and tongues. Louis looks up and grins, dirty and slightly incredulous. Niall is by the DJ, whispering something and trading secrets for candy. Zayn dances. He looks around him, all his friends in their black tie clothes, showing tailor garments that are yet to be on runways, everybody so well dressed and everybody's such a mess.

Zayn dances until he feels cold hands in his chest and on his waist, holding him closer. He smells Harry before he can see him, that fresh mint and laundry smell, even when the room is so hot and messy. Harry holds Zayn and they sway a little too slow to follow the beat. Harry kisses Zayn’s neck and somehow his lips are fresh. Zayn’s skin feels so hot and Harry’s lips feel so good Zayn can’t help but throw his head back, letting out a moan that is lost in the music.

“You are so easy for me Zayn, I bet you are already half hard in your pants.” Harry’s voice is rough, low in the dip of Zayn’s gut and Harry is right, he is in fact half hard in his pants. “So pretty in your Gosha shirt”. Zayn can tell Harry is hard too when he grinds on him, making both of them lose their breaths. Harry turns Zayn around, mouth on his neck, on his ears and Zayn feels it on the tip of his toes, cursing through his veins. When Harry kisses him, mouth hard and unforgiving, all teeth and tongue, Zayn feels like a god, watching a world so far away. A week ago he wouldn’t have come near Harry, content to look, but never touch. Now he can do anything, he can fly away or kiss Harry forever, for everyone to see.

They don’t make it to their rooms, they don’t make it outside the party, happy to have the shadows of a half hidden corner as their allie. Zayn’s hands are trembling when he licks it before taking Harry’s cock and pulling. Harry drops his head on Zayn’s shoulder, breathing heavy. The air seems charged and every stroke of Zayn’s hand, every flick of his wrist is bringing Harry closer.

Harry is so beautiful like this, Zayn is about to come, all the noises Zayn has to pay attention not to miss, all the little gasps and breathy moans. The “Fuck Zayn,” is barely audible, but Zayn hears everything Harry says, learns every reaction, hoping for a next time. Harry spills all over Zayn’s hands, streaks of milky white on caramel fingers they both admire like something alien. Like the best surprise in the world, when Zayn bring his fingers to his mouth and Harry looks like he might come again.

“I wish I had my camera here. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

"You should keep me then."

Harry seems dazed and out of it, desperate. His fly is still open when he sinks to the sticky floor, working Zayn’s trouser with swift motions. Harry takes no time, takes no time with teasing before he swallows Zayn down. Zayn’s cock meeting with Harry’s throat, making the most lovely sound. Harry breathes through it his jaw wide open his head in sync with Zayn’s beating heart, the most delicious rhythm, the most delicious mouth, obscene eyes looking at Zayn.

Harry shamelessly working his hands on Zayn’s balls, on Zayn’s hole. Zayn would be embarrassed from how fast he comes, but with Harry letting him fuck his throat and one finger grazing  over his sweet sweet spot he is just glad to be alive. They pant together, sharing a kiss that taste like Zayn and vodka. The lights glowing in technicolor on the walls.

 ****  
  


“I’m gonna miss you, Zayn Malik,” is the last thing Harry says when he walks away.

* * *

  


Zayn lies in bed, dreaming of truthful things. It was real. He knows it was real. He still has bruises, teeth marks, aching knees to prove to himself it was real. The white ceiling in his dorm is nothing if mind numbingly boring. The walls are white, the ceiling is white. All the whiteness around him making it all worse. He feels dizzy as he rushes to the bathroom. The porcelain is cold and welcome on his heated skin, his forehead hanging on the toilet when the first tear threatens to fall. But he won’t cry. He won’t. It’s over then. He won’t cry. He thinks back on every word Harry said. He goes back to every smile they shared, every secret touch, every stare. All the greens, red and pink. Zayn feels hollow, a silhouette of himself.

“Wait, Harry.” Zayn can’t run any faster, his lungs are corrupted and his legs unsteady. Harry looks back and his eyes are misty and too big. A cartoon of a person. A cruel, cruel person. “What do you mean, Harry?” Harry’s eyes don’t meet his. Harry shies from his touches and Zayn doesn’t feel too good. His stomach is churning and his hands feel cold. “What does it mean Harry?”. Zayn presses, pushes harder but Harry stays silent and it hurts, it hurts so much. Like tiny hands are crushing his soul. His mind. His heart. He doesn’t say anything. Harry doesn’t say anything and it’s all empty around them, not even the wind present.

“Was it real?”

It feels like the world is ending, like the rise of the sun is nothing more than mere chance or possibility. Zayn feels like he is dying, not the little kind, the for real dead kind of death. It feels like the end of time, but Harry’s eyes are still the most beautiful shade of green on the Earth, the type of green as impossible is. The neighbour's grass, the sea, rare and precious stones. Perfect green looking at  Zayn. Perfect green when Harry finally looks at Zayn.

“Of course it was real.”

“So why are you doing this? I love you.” The sound of Zayn’s voice is weak, almost lost in the silence, in the night. A plea of love wandering about on the grounds like a ghost.

“You don’t _love_ me Zayn. You've known me for a week. You _can’t_ love me. _I can’t love you_.” Harry has the audacity to look hurt, shaking his head and rejecting the words that sound foreign coming from his lips, words someone out there and it’s all fucking bullshit.

“If I can’t love you how come I do? You don’t have this right. You don’t get to tell me how to feel. No one does.” ****

Harry is cold and Zayn burns, the sun just a promise of the end of the world waiting for the perfect time. Zayn hates this, hates not seeing his Harry in the stranger in front of him, this stranger with perfect eyes and wrong lips. Not knowing him like this, no spark, no laughter, no light. They stand quiet for far too long. The stars dancing in the sky in fast forward, the lake with tiny waves watching alone. They stay quiet, trying to find words when there are none.

“I’m not brave enough Zayn. I love you, but I can’t choose you.”

Zayn tries to listen. But he presses, chasing the pain now, seeking the fire like a martyr. A night fly. “Why?”

“You know why.”

And Zayn does. He knows. Harry isn’t brave. He is a Styles.

“I’m gonna miss you Zayn Malik,” is the last thing Zayn remembers before he is retching on the floor .   

Zayn takes his time feeling sorry for himself, feeling everything. All the sorrow he has, all his broken pieces. He feels so alone and everything in Zayn’s body hurts. His throat burns and his eyes might as well fall off from his face. His knees are skinned and his hands are shaking. Zayn gets up from the bathroom floor and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he is late.

It’s too late and it’s over.

He watches himself in the mirror, yellow eyes, purple bags under them, green veins on his arms, the wrong kind of green. He sees the marks Harry gave him, the ones he couldn’t take back. They didn’t share gifts, things never mattered anyway. They don’t have pictures. Or Zayn doesn't have pictures, because Harry gets all the angles. Zayn sees when the tear falls. One year and that’s it. That’s all Harry Styles will get from him, one last tear.

The bruises and memories will fade and he will be fine. Zayn is brave and this is bullshit. Zayn washes his face and finishes dressing. When he gets out of the room that is no longer his he doesn’t feel anything. He locks the door, the last one on the left. He doesn’t hear footsteps or breathless laughter. It’s over, it’s all over. Zayn is brave. He is a Malik.

Zayn doesn’t get to look one last time at the lake or the forest, he doesn’t get to touch the old stones one last time. Zayn doesn’t say goodbye. To the ones that matter this isn’t goodbye anyway. He doesn’t get to see one boy staring at him from far away, a boy with green eyes. A boy with all the sorrow in his eyes. Just a scared boy with perfect eyes and red lips. Zayn doesn't look back, no last look to the place he learned to call home. He doesn't have time anymore. It’s all over now.

There is a car waiting for Zayn by the front gate, one black sedan in a long line of black sedans. Then there is a plane and a phone call.

When Zayn looks down on the lights in Stockholm, little lights like little flies he feels too big. He can’t see any stars in the sky and he feels too small. When he closes his eyes there is nothing but himself and it’s all broken. But there is time. He’s got time. A whole life of time. All the time in the world.

 

******  
**

 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Styles is twenty five and he wakes up earlier than usual that day. He didn’t close the shades all the way through and now the sun barges in uninvited. Harry could get up, blockade the sun and go back to his wonderful and warm and soft bed, but Harry was never one to ignore the urge of the unexpected tugging him, pushing him. Harry learned his lesson, he follows his heart now. That same heart he broke himself years ago. Maybe it should hurt less by now.

Maybe it should hurt more. Harry often wondered when he would forgive himself for hurting Zayn and for so deliberately hurting himself.  If he was a better person he would be more worried about Zayn, but he doesn’t know Zayn’s pain and he is sure that Zayn would be fine, Harry was sure Zayn would thrive, ready for the world at eighteen. But Harry does know his pain and he knew how his heart, his mind, his soul never recovered from that last night. That night the walls were in technicolour, that night Zayn was everything he wanted and thought it wasn’t his to have. That night the wind stopped blowing, as he said those words like a curse.

“I will miss you Zayn Malik.”

He was right. It was one week he keeps telling himself. One week when Harry was young and beautiful and he had colorful friends. Bright friends. Lost friends.

He should be over it and he was tired of pretending he was over it. The fact is that one week when he was eighteen was filled with so much happiness. Too much happiness. Sometimes Harry thinks he used up all the happiness he had for a lifetime in seven days. It looks like something he would do.  He can’t be sad about it. At least he knew happiness once. He knew Zayn Malik once. The boy with golden eyes and secret smiles. Edges on a sharp bones, his jaw, his cheekbones. That boy that was just pretty. So pretty. The boy Harry always wanted to bend a little, ruin a little, scar himself in a little.

The boy whose galaxies within never showed on the photographs he kept. They showed his mouth and eyelashes, but they were still and empty. It was sad that they reminded Harry of the man he saw in the mirror. Still and empty. Harry didn’t care much about being sad, so he just doesn’t do sad. Only allowing melancholia when the sun comes in unexpected, and makes him think and feel. The sun that makes Harry remember of the warmth of Zayn’s hands, always burning when Harry was cold and afraid. Harry was afraid once. He could be brave now.

 

“There is a party Harry. And I know there is always a party, but this is the one party Zayn will be attending. I’m sure.” Louis voice is the same as it was when they went to school together, that time they spent seven years all but ignoring each other. Harry’s best friend had a different voice. But Harry supposes it’s been awhile since Louis Tomlinson stopped being his childhood best friend.

“How do you know, Louis?” Harry needs to be sure. Hands shaking while holding his phone.

 

“Well young Harold, _it is his wedding_.”

Harry’s world collapses and he feels bad for cursing the sun earlier. He shouldn't have. The sun is very important. He knows that know. Knows now that when the is no more sun to hold everything in his place and it all just explodes in a cold and empty despair. Zayn is getting married? How did he not know that? He’s been stalking him for years. Watching every trace of Zayn around the world. Liking everything he was seeing.

“Harry? Are you there?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“I’m fucking with you. It’s not Zayn’s wedding. It’s mine.”

“No it’s not, your wedding is September third. I RSVP-ed”

“Yes you did, and thank you for the lovely, how can I say it, art piece. An original Harry Styles portrait. Not at all egotistical. Very thoughtful of you. Please check your calendar. See you soon. Goodbye.”

Harry looks at his calendar. It’s September third.

Fuck.

* * *

  


Harry always worried that he reached his peak when he was eighteen, when he was surrounded by the same faces he sees around him. Harry finds himself caged by everything he tried not to become in those seven years. Sensible hair and pleasant smiles. It’s the same. They are all the same. It makes him a little bit hysterical to know that he is a little bit like this too. He knows the language, he knows whose hands to shake and how to glance furtively. He also knows every dirty secret from half the souls in this room. This room with the ceiling so tall it could be enchanted. Knows how they get when they are free. He looks around, looks for a wicked  smile, looks for the line of a neck. And he must know, Harry must know he is doing it all wrong.

Zayn finds him first because Zayn sees Harry . Zayn sees Harry, knows Harry. They were once opposites, false bravado and quiet determination and Harry doesn’t claim to know this Zayn, but he knows he loves him. Has loved him. Has been loving him since he was eighteen. He knows the same thing he knew the first time he saw Zayn. The first time their eyes crossed. Eyes finding each other like an inevitability, something like fate. Zayn is the first person to feel exactly how he feels.

Zayn is right in front of him and he is taller standing straight. He is thinner, sharper. He is still the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen. Harry can’t help but smile when he sees that the stars, the elusive stars in Zayns eyes are there, that those golden eyes still shine as they did when they were younger. Zayn is perfect.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” Harry tries, he tries. Because he has to. He needs to know if this is it.

“I remember the last.” Zayn is smiling even if his words are as sharp as his look. Zayn takes Harry’s hands and it is as warm as Harry wished for. Zayn must see something in Harry. It must be that thing making Harry’s heart hurt all over again. That pain that comes with healing. That pain that comes with hope. That dangerous pain that makes you feel alive. Zayn is closer, still holding Harry’s hand. Zayn kisses his neck and Harry knows he is forgiven, that all it takes is a touch. A touch with too much history to make him feel like he is finally home. Harry doesn’t mind words. Harry doesn’t mind Zayn’s words.

““You can say anything to me, just take me with you.”

This time Harry follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!


End file.
